


Cygnus cygnus

by WaxDragons



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drabble, I don't think I'm happy with it either, I don't think it compares to the last drabble I published, With Headcanons, and I wanted to consider Rip's motivations for a second, but its something, hopefully this isn't too bad, may rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29474709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaxDragons/pseuds/WaxDragons
Summary: Rip van Winkle does not like to feel alone.She never breathes a word of the dislike to anyone; it’s weak, unprofessional, and, most of all, unfittingly human. Her humanity had been forfeited long before she left her fatherland and as such, she had no right to claim this awful hole in her chest as anything more than a side effect of selling her soul.
Kudos: 3





	Cygnus cygnus

**Author's Note:**

> Quantum Superposition was definitely more inspired than this one but this might be able to hold its own as just an idea. I wanted to run with an idea behind Rip's motivations as a quick writing exercise. I was 50/50 between picking loneliness vs. loyalty and just went with one. Maybe I'll try a rewrite with loyalty as the focus. This drabble just doesn't sit right. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm almost digging the idea of doing a small collection of Millennium drabbles. We'll see. Next I'll either cover Zorin or the Captain, and honestly I love the Captain just because I want to talk about old computers. While it's a bit of a stretch he did anything beyond watch over the Major, it's fun to think about other things he could have done. I want to flesh out Millennium operations in Brazil-- how they canonically got tied in with governments and pulled together their grand plan. Unfortunately, that whole genre isn't my strong point.

Rip van Winkle does not like to feel alone.

She never breathes a word of the dislike to anyone; it’s weak, unprofessional, and, most of all, unfittingly human. Her humanity had been forfeited long before she left her fatherland and as such, she had no right to claim this awful hole in her chest as anything more than a side effect of selling her soul.

The idea of being alone in an army is preposterous. And yet there aren’t a lot of women in Millennium—it’s just her and Zorin, and Zorin isn’t much her kind of company. It’s been a lonely couple of decades surrounded by aging soldiers and officers; clinging to her few ageless comrades for daily pleasantries and praying to whatever will listen that their plan comes to fruition sooner.

If the Major knew of her private habits he’d laugh. _There is not a deity out there that would care to listen to their kind,_ he’d say, _that is reserved for humanity alone._ No, they would have to march to Asgard themselves and demand entry to Valhalla.

When she was a child, Rip had been fascinated by the imagery of swans and Valkyries. It pulls at her heart to think of how she had felt when her mother took her to watch the swans on the river. There aren’t words to describe what she feels when she thinks of how she used to watch the swans with her dearest friend.

Her name has been lost to time—unlike Rip’s own name, which had been sold to the demon in her rifle—and Rip hates herself for forgetting. They’d been the closest pair; their mothers were friends and they had grown up inseparable. Rip can still feel the ghost of how hard her heart would pound when her friend laughed and had only realized far too late what that meant.

Her friend had gotten married young and left her behind, happily bearing children for the war effort and all but forgetting she existed, putting her time and effort into encouraging other women to do the same. It had been the exact same loneliness she felt now that had inspired Rip to desperately join whatever her friend was in; but she had not fit in there, either.

Those women were not her kind of company, fixated on becoming housewives and bearing children. That would be a different kind of waking hell, she figures, and doesn’t regret that her marksmanship had brought her attention over of her womanly capabilities.

She had been picked up by the Major early in the war and had been part of a cohort destined to sell their names to the legions of hell for enchanted bullets. Fortunately, or unfortunately, she’d been the only one to live through the process.

She’d also been the only woman. 

As it turned out the spirit of her rifle isn’t much of a companion, either, and the first time she took it to watch the swans in the river she had realized, with dawning horror, that she was no longer so entranced by them. That was when she had submerged herself in opera, partially in a desperate bid to find something captivating to fill the void in her heart, and partially to try seeing things from her father’s point of view.

Much like the Major, her father had loved opera. Maybe from a man’s point of view, she would have been able to conceive a way to be intimate with a woman.

Nothing came of it; other than a repertoire of music she could sing to herself _alone._ Rip shouldn’t have been so naïve, hoping that a change in her perspective would change the reality that a woman could never be allowed love another woman, but there was some compensation in that she finally had an alias. It was insulting, having to be referred to in conversation like a smudge of ink on paper. No, instead she’d borrowed the name Rip van Winkle at the Major’s suggestion.

The Major was her only real source of companionship at this point, too. Every Saturday at noon, unless he was away, she would stop by for a chat about an interpretation of an old classic. Before their soldiers were too old to work effectively, the Captain had had time to listen to her field her first attempts at her thematic arguments. Sometimes Schrodinger would even join in on occasion, but only if he knew he would hear her sing.

Neither Doc nor Zorin would care to converse with her about the arts.

And that brings her back to square one. She was effectively alone, isolated in an army far away from her fatherland knowing that her parents were likely long dead and her old friend probably surrounded by family. She couldn’t bring herself to think of her friend as dead, even if that, too, was most likely.

Recently, for lack of anything else to do, Rip has taken to leaving their base to go birdwatching. As far as she knows there are no swans in Brazil, but the native species of the rainforest are still a sight to behold. The Major doesn’t mind as long as she stays in the shadows and away from prying eyes.

Deep in the jungle she’s found that she may be alone, but she is at peace. There, she doesn’t have to pretend to be fulfilled by the way her life has turned out. When she’s in the mood, the wildlife is a fine audience for her mournful singing. Other times, there is good sport in seeing how many birds she can take down with one shot.

Sixteen is her record before she loses focus and her musket ball lodges into a tree. 

Would it be different to kill men? She wonders, sometimes, and then decides that distinctions don’t matter. Men, like birds, are all the same. Only one thing would matter, and that is her reaper, her last challenge before she is free from this lonely hell.


End file.
